


The Aid to Recovery

by tiethreadGrotesquecinema



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: I do not own any of the characters, I own nothing but the fanfiction, M/M, dc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 05:57:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3163835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiethreadGrotesquecinema/pseuds/tiethreadGrotesquecinema
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The basic gist of this is that Batman gets hurt, severely so, and it isn't by the Joker's hands for once. Instead, the Penguin injures him, rendering the Batman a bit on the crippled side of things for a bit. Ol' Joker doesn't seem to enjoy his favorite hero getting his ass handed to him by someone other than himself...</p><p>Eventual smut will ensue, so there will be a warning for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Well, this was absolutely marvelous. And by ‘marvelous’, Batman means absolutely redundant. Currently, he was tied up (which seemed to be a ritual in this time of his career), rope chaffing and biting into the small slit where leather gloves met the wrist portion of his suit’s arm armor. Said arms were bound behind his back, making his chest stick out more prominently so that it was a bit difficult breathing. Not to mention the rope tied over the chest portion of his torso put pressure on his ribs--broken ribs, to be exact; two on the left, three on the right. He was sure to be sore in the morning.

As if that wasn’t enough, his whole world was turned upside down; the man clad in light and intimidating armor was hanging upside down by the same ropes that bound him from escaping. It travelled downwards--or upwards from another’s perspective from the ground--curled around his ankles, and warped itself over an iron hook that went somewhere deep into the cracked concrete ceiling to the rundown factory. What factory to be more precise? An abandoned one, that much was evident. There were massive pipes zigzagging every-which-way and water dripping from various nooks and crannies; they must have been underground then. The lack of windows and poor excuse of light from dusty light bulbs only confirmed this thought.

So, not only was the vigilante in a dark decrepit place, but also was at a loss for an exit. He had come in by crawling carefully through one of the ventilation shafts, however that seemed to be a very unlikely exit now. That is, unless the bullets that had been fired at him in the midst of his sneaking about hadn’t crippled the vents useless in the process. Bruce doubts that; he had fallen through one of the grates that poured stale air into the factory, and not by choice either since it was either collapse on the concrete floor twenty meters below or get riddled with bullets before he had the chance to even touch The Penguin.

Crashing on the floor hadn’t been a pretty sight either. It had earned him his formerly mentioned broken ribs, but at least he was still capable of breathing and thinking coherently. That was much preferred over being a rotten corpse in such an unsuspecting and confidential place. Speaking of which, it hadn’t been confidential enough for Batman not to notice the concerning amount of activity near here. Ammo and artillery were shipped to this underground establishment nearly daily, making the 'secret' hideout a not-so-secret place. The hideout, which Batman only realized moments ago, belonged to the elusive Penguin; originally known as Oswald Cobblepot.

The pointy-nosed man himself was wandering smugly from large planked box to planked box located directly beneath the Batman, inspecting the artillery and making sure the product in itself wasn’t tampered with.

“Well, well, well, Mister Batman. You’ve got yourself swaddled up in quite the predicament, now haven’t you? Never thought you’d be able to figure out this establishment was anything more then a vacant storage unit. Ah, but then again, you seem to poke that nose of yours into the most unnecessary of places. Couldn’t keep those bat claws of yours out of my business, now could you?” He hadn’t looked up from his task, taking out a rapid-fire gun from its snug position in one of the boxes and almost caressed the weapon like a long lost lover.

“Penguin, you won’t get away with this." Bruce growled out with a plain façade. "You know you won’t; so why not let me out of here before I finally escape and send you back to Arkham--the hard way?“ His tone was laced with acid, his dark eyes glowering down at the petite sized man grotesquely cackling below. The man should have been heading the Knight's words instead of laughing. Batman had been using one of the many gadgets from his outfit to escape his binds. A small, sharp blade protruded from his gloved finger, sliding tediously against the taut ropes in hopes of cutting them loose.

“Ah, ahh, ah, watch your manners Batman. I know a mongrel like you hasn’t been properly raised with the same etiquette as mine, however that is no reason for you to be so… mh, let’s say, ‘rash’. I think you’re going to continue hanging. Is that not what you bats do?” His tone was mocking Bruce, practically rubbing in the fact that his henchmen had quickly restrained the notorious hero in his pained state and rendered him useless… or, so they thought. “Besides, I think you’ll prove to be an efficient target for my personal practice.” Another dark chuckle and he was aiming the gleaming gun in his white-gloved hands at the Dark Knight, ghastly teeth exposed in a wicked grin.

Bruce felt his jaw muscle tighten as his whole body tensed up considerably, teeth locked together in a tight clench as he saw the predicament he was in. Though he could put up a decent fight in hand-to-hand combat and handled guns and the like well without an actual weapon, being bound at the same time as a firearm was being aimed at his head didn't prove to be an easy feat to conquer. There was nowhere he could go. There was nothing he could do, other then quicken his slicing of the rope, which soon gave the man relief at last. The last few strands of the frayed rope soon snapped under the pressure of the blade from his hand and allowed freedom to be his.

Before Penguin could pull his trigger finger, Batman was already on the move. Using his wrists, he shrugged off the rope around them, his hands then free enough to reach upward and grasp the rope his feet were tied to. His upper torso did the majority of the work, which had the man hissing and scrunching his face up with pain on account of his injuries. With a fluent yank of his firm hands, he was able to break the bind around his ankles. Penguin had fired the gun then, the rat-tat-tat of it echoing as the Knight dropped from his position and agilely slipped into the darkness below. Penguin hadn’t been quick enough to keep his eyes on the opposing man, his attention snapping quickly to the shadows so that by perhaps chance he could catch sight of the caped crusader. 

“Batman! Come out, come out, wherever you’re hiding!” He roared, now irritated that his fun was being ruined. The henchmen that had been idly listening to the rival's conversation and busily organizing their merchandise have begun to stop their movement. Each one's muscles tensed in sudden worry and intimidation, caution filling their every step as incoherent curses left their lips. They thought they had bound the Bat beyond mobility, but by the sound of their boss shouting and stomping one foot like a toddler who hadn't received a teddy bear from the nearby market, the goons know they had made a mistake. Before Bruce could even think about taking out anyone, Penguin shouted for his men to find the Batman and to kill him on sight.

Surely the crusader wouldn't allow that, his mind racing for options as his own blood pumper thrummed dramatically. Quietly, he lurked in the shadows, weaving and sliding amongst the dark spaces of the dimly lit area. It was a bit difficult to stay on his toes though. His chest ached, ribs feeling as if someone had kicked him a few rough times with a steel-toed boot--which, had actually happened. As he avoided the opposing individuals' onslaught to off him, he looked desperately for an exit. There had to be a way the henchmen got in and out without effort, but where?

A few more swift tricks consisting of edging the shadows and twisting the arm of a goon or two to then knocking them out, and he was coming to a steel door holed up behind a wall of steaming pipes. Water dripped from a few loose bolts it had, but heat practically rolled off of the metal to caress the portion of Batman’s face that wasn’t covered by his cowl.

He had to get out of there; he couldn’t worry about the Penguin at the moment. His breathing was becoming raspy, his own sight blurring on the edges and there was some sort of twisted fire in his lungs. Internal bleeding seemed like a very likely cause of all the pain, but that seemed to be the least of his worries as an abrupt swing of the butt of a gun connected to his cranium. The cowl took a small portion of the hit, but it still had him spinning as Bruce collapsed to the floor.

“Now, what have I _told_ you about manners!” A familiar, now pissed voice asked. Penguin’s teeth were bared threateningly like an animal, eyes aflame with impatient aggravation, and another crack of the gun against Batman could be heard; this time against his side. Bruce couldn’t help it, a chocked grunt escaped him, teeth gritting as he tried to scramble up. The scene swirled, his equilibrium off balance and rendering the Bat incoherent as he staggering side to side. He looked to be on the bridge of falling over once more, but before he had the chance to, Penguin kneed him sharply in the gut, another grunt following the blow.

Batman was in a very bad position. His vision was blacking in and out, gravity proving to not be in his favor as he continued to sway. He needed to get out of the hands of The Penguin, get on his feet in a dependable stance and defend himself. Instead of doing that though, he ended up grasping the front of Penguin’s shirt just as the opposing man was moving to shoot him directly in the face. Of course, the suit-adorned man was surprised; he thought the Bat had given up. Apparently, he was wrong and was slung face first into the blistering hot wall of pipes.

The scream that erupted from him was ear shattering, his whole body pressing against the metal as Batman practically pinned him there. Bruce didn't say a word, a grim expression etching upon his features. His mask inevitably covered such an expression. He didn’t want to _kill_ the man, however he had forced this on himself. Eventually, after the screaming became too much and his headache became unbearably intense, he let the villain slip from his grasp. Penguin slid to the floor, as far away from the pipes as he could in his current state and proceeded to wail and cringe at his fevered and red skin, which steamed noticeably.

Batman doesn’t remember if any of Penguin’s goons showed up to aid their boss in need as he screamed, or if he stumbled a few times on his way up and out of the factory. In fact, he doesn’t even remember throwing himself into the Batmobile parked adjacent to the trucks of artillery lining up along the area of exit he came out of. He does remember, however, Alfred gasping in that composed way only he can as Bruce climbed out of his vehicle and practically dropped into the man’s arms. Of course, he had to use whatever strength he had left to help Alfred get him into the sanction of the Batcave’s aid room. After being eased onto a metal table located in the sterile room, everything slowly started to fade out and cloud. As the bats above squeaked, the cold embrace of unconsciousness comforted him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman is a little beat up. So, to make him feel better, why not give him a little... surprise?

The next few days were harsh. Every hour was filled with popping a couple painkillers, quick body checks on his wounds, and then a redressing of said wounds. There wasn't particularly much Alfred could do for Bruce’s broken rib cage (the billionaire had been right about the several bones being cracked), however what the guardian could do was make sure none of them had punctured a severe hole in his lungs. Bruce had a few mechanisms for doing such a task.

Each one was stashed somewhere in the dark crevices of the mansion, just so that the question of, “Why on Earth do you have a massive X-ray sitting idly in your home,” wouldn’t arise. Wayne Enterprise could handle any sort of medical bill, proving to be a company that would wipe their own ass with a hundred dollar bill, so why indeed would Bruce Wayne have a personal device for checking broken or fractured limbs when he could simply drop by the nearest E.R., via quickest means of transportation? That would certainly prove to be an awkward conversation to deal with.

So, rather then deal with that topic, he was able to sneak in a few medical machines to aid him in looking over any injuries he might have. After a couple hours of the that whole ordeal, and with Alfred nagging him about being a bit more careful and to rest up, he was finally settled into bed and stayed bedridden for the next several or so days. Every time he tried to sit up, pain sparked up his sides, setting off some sort of red flag that raised every hair on the man’s body in agitation.

Even when he grit his teeth and fought through it, he found the bruises and broken bones were a bit much to handle. Bruce can’t even remember the last time he’d broken a limb, but he does recall earning a pretty set of scars from various foes (one above all others that seemed to be more knife-happy then trigger-happy). It shouldn’t have been as heavy a thing to deal with then what it was, but after awhile he realized that this is an actual problem.

Batman didn’t take days off, and neither did the agents of destruction that ran loose in Gotham City. By the time the third day passed, several banks had been robbed, the police station had panic spreading like wildfire through it, and Bruce only now saw how much of a crutch he was to the law enforcement. They’ve grown too accustomed to the Bat running things and saving them from the heinous criminals. If only they had noticed how much the billionaire of the city had been hurting, physically _and_ mentally. Maybe then they might have realized the man’s injury and the lack of Batman was a huge hint.

As the TV played the newest update of the corruption, the bruised and beaten bat laid helplessly in bed, hands curled tightly into the thin sheets with a vice-like grip. There wasn’t anything he could do; not stop the insistent amount of people going missing, then turning up murdered in an alley, nor could he stop the bombing on Main Street that had been the effect of The Joker getting too comfortable with explosives. All he could do was lay in bed, or try to get up before being aided back to his ‘jail cell’ by the hands of his butler.

It was ruining Batman, driving him mad and biting at every nerve he had in his body. Fighting crime had turned out to be a way out for him, and not only him, but to the people of Gotham as well. They looked up to him, trusted him, and believed that he would be some sort of solution to all their problems. But, not even the hero could avoid the struggle of healing. It was almost pathetic when one thought about it, so often times he slept. Eventually, Alfred had had enough of his moping, and surprised his employer by throwing a party.

How ironical. When everything else was rolling over onto it’s back, belly up and exposed, the individuals fortunate enough to pay people to keep their spiffy and up-tight ass’ found a way to throw a get together. They’d drink away the tears of the suffering in wine glasses, eat the blood spilt from corpses on silver platters, and digest every apathetic thought they had before letting it spew from their mouth in a nearby toilet… then down more grotesque food. It made Bruce’s stomach churn just thinking about it, but it didn’t take long for him to finally succumb to what Alfred wanted.

The man only wanted what was best for the raven-haired man, and in a way, Bruce understood that. Maybe that’s why he finally gave way and threw on a suit, obviously with some help from the same man who was putting him through this whole affair. Alfred had better be grateful Bruce saw him greatly as a father figure and not someone he could easily toss aside and find a replacement for.

The entire process of waiting for the guests was a bit nail biting. He couldn’t tell whether he would welcome the distraction, or be anxious the entire time. He knew something awful was churning in his gut, however, if asked why, he wouldn’t be able to place his detest. Aside from the fact the folks coming to his manor wouldn’t and couldn’t give less of a shit about the chaos flowing hotly through the city, he felt that there was a bit more to be concerned about. Now, what that was exactly… he couldn’t pinpoint for the life of him.

\-----

Decorations of the most finest tastes hung from the cieling, chandeliers alighted with a gold lighting, and platters filled to the edge with delicasies laid flatly in the waiter's hands. The driveway was filling with expensive vehicles, brand names variating between french, to German, to Italian. In one of the larger rooms amongst many in the mansion, a live orchestra played a cello, violen, piano, and other sorts of smooth music that floated in the air and somewhat calmed Wayne's nerves. He was still on edge, still biting a nice sore into the innards of his cheek, but even as copper tainted his tongue, he continued the pointless act regardless.

Hours wore on, people filled the mansion, and soon laughter and cheap excuses for conversation that inevitably led to number exchanges and a quickie in one of the upstairs bedrooms soon occurred. Bruce Wayne was filling his role of a great host by chatting amongst a few individuals, then skipping to a next group. He kept moving as much as possible, having found a stylish cane that accented his tailored and sleek, black suit very well. For a while, Batman seemed to blend in with everyone else. For a while, he seemed like every other Playboy that roamed hungrily for their next bounty of cash or female to hook upon his arm. For a while, Batman believed he was Bruce Wayne, and didn’t care that there were other’s more misfortunate crying for help on the streets.

It was only when Bruce stepped outside for a moment on the balcony, one hand resting on the cold marble railing with the night air kissing gently at his skin, that he finally chocked. He hadn’t eaten anything the entire night, but his stomach felt like he’d just gorged on the very definition of gluttony. Bile stung like acid at the back of his throat, tempting him to gag. The suffocating scent of expensive perfume and marinated steaks his guests had been eating stuffed up his nose, refusing him any sort of relief from the stench. It was vile, vulgar, and a venomous snake had been allowed into his home in the form of multiple beings.

For the longest moment, he leaned against both the railing and his cane, gripping tightly at them and gazing intently into the night. He just had to clear out his lungs, get as much fresh air as possible into them and think for a moment. Yes, he was something those other fortunate people would never be. Yes, he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. And yes, he was impersonating something he would never truly be. But, he had to admit; even though every fiber of his being _ached_ to be an equally ignorant individual, _hoped_ that one day he could wake up and not think about the consequences of not putting the Bat suit on, he had to agree that, in the end… he wouldn’t like it any other way.

With thoughts running at a thousand miles per hour, he soon felt the pressing need to come back into the building. His gut was still wrenching, rocks tossing and turning heavily in his abdomen, but he gulped in one last clean breath before straightening back up and put his Bruce Mask back on. The ever so charming smile that cracked on his face felt unnatural and he knew it must have looked forced. As he pushed pass the velvet curtains though, trying to keep the pleasant as possible expression on, he felt the smile quickly dropping and turning into something that would mimic a look Batman would express.

“G _oo_ d _ee_ -ven-ing la- _dies_ and _gentle_ -men!” A voice greeted in an almost nasally manner, the carved smile his mouth was in could easily be heard through each curled vowel and hiss of an, ‘S’. Goons were spread about the party, guns holstered on their sides and some artillery grasped in their hands. Disturbing masks were on each criminal’s face, hiding the smug smirks they were more then likely wearing. The actual guests stood frightened, a few dropping whatever had been in their hands and allowing such objects to clumsily decorate the linoleum floors.

With mouths agape, eyes wide, and shock coursing through everyone’s veins, a purple suited man waltzed purposefully through the crowd. Almost as if the green-haired man owned the place, he popped a few pieces of food into his mouth from the trays sitting on the tables, vibrant eyes glinting something devious from even Bruce’s point of view from behind the defenseless million and billionaires. Even with his mouth semi-full of food, he continued to talk, eyes grazing the sheep shaking in their priceless outfits.

“We are tonight’s enter-tain- _ment.”_ He flashed a grin then, whipping around on his heels and exposing open arms as if waiting to be embraced. “And I just have, ah, _one_ question…” A pause lay thickly on the air, taking away everyone’s breath. His eyes again swept the crowd, almost as if he were looking for someone; one certain being amongst the snobs who turned their noses up at anything that gave even the slightest whiff of being different; someone who lurked in the shadows, swiftly and effectively hiding himself as one of the sheep in the herd; someone who was currently staring directly at the madman with intense fury, but kept himself hidden behind the crowd. “- _Where_ is Bruce Way-ne.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Joker gets a bit personal, the crowd goes wild, and Brucie-Baby can't keep all of it together.

 

No. _No_. **_No_.** **_NO_.**

The words _Bruce Wayne_ echoed ominously throughout the ballroom, intensifying the already thick air that dragged down everyone’s shoulders like a massive burden. It seemed that even the tiled walls and delicately designed columns decorating the manor were shaking to their very core, intimidated and terrified of what was to come next. Or, maybe, that was merely Bruce shaking in his own drawers, staring intensely at the man before him that turned left and right, his grin never faltering once. Bruce doesn’t think the madman knows what he’s doing, what sort of hell he was bringing forth upon the Playboy in hopes of… what? What was the Joker trying to accomplish? What exactly was it he was trying to do by coming to a manor full of the richest of the rich?

The Joker had no personal interest in wealth or anything of that sort. His lavender tailored suit beckoned otherwise, but Batman knew the man well enough to know that under all that pricey fabric and copious amounts of artillery, he was a _simple_ beast. He didn’t have a taste for the fine and delectable delights money had to offer, nor did he look upon any individual with power like they were some sort of god. In a way, Joker seemed to look at himself as a god, or as an agent of chaos. He set order to Gotham, or at least that’s what he thought he did. When, in reality, Batman set the line of order. He watched Gotham like a lover, made sure she was treated right and that no markings from both ingenious criminals and their following goons lay purple, yellow, or blue bruises upon her skin.

With as much power as the Bat could muster, he would protect her, become a shield for her, and slam the heads of those who inflicted pain on her into a wall; again, and again, and again (without killing them, of course). He wouldn’t stop, never in his entire life and as long as the citizens of Gotham allowed him. The city was indeed a part of him, but at the same time she had another lover hooked tightly in the crook of her arm. Said lover was the pimp to her bitchiness, the insanity to Batman’s sanity, and the acidic bile at the back of everyone’s throats. This couldn’t have been anyone _but_ the nutcase known as Joker. Why Gotham fancied him so much, Bruce couldn’t fathom, but she seemed as willing to bend over for him as she would for Batman.

The Bat doesn’t share very well.

How had The Joker come into his housing undetected anyway? There had to be a respectable amount of security littered about the outside of the party, but he wouldn’t put it above said security to slack off and assume no one would show up to harm the snobs drinking champagne inside the warm building whilst they froze their ass’ off outside. He also wouldn’t put it above Joker to have already taken each guard down, which only added to the insane man’s list of successful kills. How long that list must be, crinkled and grimy from his greasepaint-covered hands, blood splattered on a corner or two… it made Bruce’s stomach do another flop of the night.

He couldn’t focus on the uneasiness for too long though, his blue eyes having been caught by the glint of green flashing something venomous in his direction. Bruce hadn’t even noticed he’d been staring at Joker, boring holes into that mess of green and greasy locks as if he could possibly kill him with a mere look. But, that would mean he would have broken his number one rule, and not even Joker would be able to force Batman’s hand into doing that. Hopefully.

The split eye contact they made was enough to have Bruce tensing up more then he had been, grip almost fusing his hand into the polished black wood of his cane, knuckles a ghastly white. How the other had been able to detect him, sought him out from all the faces in the crowd that blended into one unfamiliar wave, couldn’t be fathomed by the billionaire. All he knew was that the gruesome grin the carved man had was widening into a disturbing degree, gums and yellowing teeth evident in the expression.

“ _Oh_ , there you _are_ , _Bru_ -cie Ba- _by_!” The delight in his voice made dread encase around Wayne, more bile rubbing and prodding at the back of his throat. He knew he couldn’t simply run off, couldn’t leave everyone else to fall victim to the madman’s hands. No, instead he swallowed, a very Bruce move to do. Batman would have already tried tackling the clown, then walloped him a few times in the cranium for good measure. Batman wouldn’t have willingly given himself up, nor would he have started making his way through the crowd towards the man who was the very definition of anarchy.

But, Bruce Wayne would.

Bruce Wayne would indeed draw closer, each step growing heavier and heavier as his chest ached with something more then just his broken ribs. As the meters grew into yards, the yards grew into feet, and the feet grew into a mere step away, Bruce realized that breathing had suddenly become difficult. This was a new sensation, something so foreign to him that made his dark brows crease forward slightly in confusion. Batman was never nervous around Joker. _Never._ But, here he was, palms sweating and all eyes bestowed upon his slightly erect form, shoulders back and chest out as much as possible even though such a posture made his wounds bite his nerves in detest.

“… Yes, here I am.” Bruce starts, cold blue eyes watching as the opposing man shifted ever so slightly where he stood, head cocking to the side a bit so that his mess of curls darkened the pitch-black circles under his forest green eyes. That wicked grin he held seemed to relax a bit, his teeth less exposed and his facial features shifting subtly in a manner that would hint at him thoughtfully observing Bruce. It didn’t take a psychic to know what the other was thinking, his eyes raking down Bruce’s suit and then allowing a question to twinkle in his irises. _Why_?

Why, what? Why was he standing so confidently before The Joker? Why was he not shivering in his loafers and pleading to be left alone? Why wasn’t he high tailing it out of the manor or trying to swing his cane at Joker? He didn’t know, and the unanswered questions kept piling as the billionaire opened his mouth to ask a question of his own to the madman.

“What do you want J-?” His mouth kept moving, but no sound came out; only a gasp as his eyes caught the swift motion of Joker lashing out, snagging his cane with the crook of his ankle and kicking it out from under Bruce’s weight. Almost instantly, he fell over, blue eyes widening a fraction of an inch as his senses told him to catch himself. He was just about to too, just about to twist his body and land on his forearms rather then his ribs before Joker was fluidly using the same cane he’d kicked out from Wayne’s grasp and swatted him across the torso with it. The heavy force knocked the wind out of his lungs, the host now crumpled on his side on the linoleum floors and wheezing to catch his breath.

Everything blurred out on the edges then, bruises and fractured bones feeling as if someone had filled his nerves with magma and tried beating the fire out with blunt, wooden sticks. If he thought breathing was a chore before, he was really gasping for air now. He wasn’t even able to pick up his steady breathing before an abrupt kick of thick-heeled boots came to wham against his perfectly chiseled jawline. The kick had been so quick; Bruce couldn’t brace himself and felt the full impact, the taste of iron blooming on his tongue once more.

It was then, amidst the loud ringing in his ears, did he take notice of the muffled nasally laughter that erupted from the individual hovering above him, black cane a sudden weapon in one hand, lips sucked into his mouth to show he was legitimately trying to hide his delighted giggling. What a _sick_ bastard. He was getting his kicks off on the way Bruce was gasping, head spinning and vision splotched with black smears that threatened to consume his sight. Each breathy huff of laughter from above him made his head ache more, heart rapidly beating in his chest, _knowing_ that the crowd full of spectators were covering their mouths, gasping into them with eyes wide and shock bundling every nerve their body had to offer.

What was the sickest part about the whole ordeal was that no one came forward. Well, no one but Alfred. Bruce knew his butler was coming forward, to do something—anything, to ward off the insane clown that looked to be planning another assault on Mr. Wayne. There wasn’t much the man could do though; his footfalls silenced as two goons hooked arms over each of his and almost threw him back into the crowd. No, they couldn’t touch Alfred, not him. 

“Tut, tut, tut, why are _you ruin_ -ing _my_ fun? Don’t you know you old crease of long forgotten skin, that _I’m_ running things _now_?” The Joker clicked his tongue, giving a digressing expression before flickering his gaze back upon his prize on the floor. Bruce was catching his breath finally, icy hues darting around the room in a small panic before finally settling on Joker; the bright hues darkened considerably. Joker had no right to be here and no right to use such a condescending tone towards someone Bruce thought to be his family.  He had _no_ right to be anywhere near Bruce’s life and loved ones, yet here he was, corrupting everything with a simple touch and turning it to ashes.

“What… do you want?” He tried asking once more, trying not to wheeze out every word and nearly bit his own tongue in trying not to wince. Joker merely stared down at him for a moment. Finally, with a roll of his eyes, he sucked at his tongue to make it click again, visibly impatient. He made it seem as if the answer Pretty Boy was looking for was right under that little nose of his, teasing and taunting him; always teasing and taunting. He tilted his head from side to side, almost as if he were weighing the thoughts in his head and judging if he could keep them steadily on his shoulders before they spilt uncontrollably from his cranium. Eventually, he kneels down next to Bruce, getting up close and personal within a mere second.

At first, Bruce expected a wave of gunpowder, last night’s dinner, and stale breath to ghost his skin. Instead, it was a bit like… cherries. Like Joker had spent the entire day sucking on the sweet fruit, somehow knowing he’d get in the playboy’s personal space and didn’t want the man cringing away from his stench. His scars were much more detailed up close, scarred and puckered flesh caked with red grease paint. Was it the paint that made him smell so sweet? It was an odd category to associate with the Clown Prince, and it didn’t sit very well with Bruce.

“Now, who said _you_ could ask all these… question-sss? Why do you seem so _serious_? This is a party, after all. There shouldn’t be any questions; _oh_ , but doesn’t that make me a nifty hypocrite?” A bubble of laughter erupts from him, just one bout, before he’s giggling behind closed lips again. “Oh, no, no, no, I’ll play this game fairly.” He grips Bruce’s jawline for a moment as his words trail off, grasp as ungracious as the abrupt way he’d entered the manor’s party; Bruce wouldn’t doubt it if that same hand left a bruise in it’s wake. “See, _all_ I wanted was to have some _fun_. It’s gotten so **_boring_** in the slums of Gotham; the Narrows barely suit me anymore. So, you know what _I_ want now? I want-“ He tossed Bruce’s head back, grinning broadly and standing back up, cane twirling expertly between his fingertips. “-You, Mister Playboy; Bruce Wayne; My Knight in Shining Armor!”

The heavy load of laughter that burst from him then was uncontrollable, spilling over his painted lips and turning a probably once joyous sound into a corrupted scratch of nails against chalkboard. The color faded from Wayne’s features, hands clammy once more as worry built up in his chest, limbs trembling slightly now. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all.

_My Knight in Shining Armor!_

He **knows**.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the wait, work has me on my toes. Enjoy!

There was no other solution as to why the Joker would say such a thing to the Prince Charming of Gotham. Of course, there have been plenty of nicknames given to Bruce, or more so Batman, from The Joker, but most have ended with the maniac losing a tooth or laughing hysterically with a mouth full of blood. Batman has been called his ‘King’, or something more sentimental like his ‘Equal’, saying that he ‘completed’ Joker, but most of the time Batman waved it off as the homicidal man blathering whatever nonsense came to his mind first. However, what Bruce had now noticed was his uncanny tendency for spitting out the word ‘Dark Knight’, as did most civilians of Gotham. If he wasn’t known for being Batman, then he was the Silent Knight of the Ever Eerie Night.

Those words repeated themselves like a mantra in his cranium, lips almost syncing with the thoughts and pseudo speaking. It was almost as if he had to taste the words himself, let them roll along his tongue, so that he could understand some of the insanity that spilled from Joker’s mouth.

 _Dark Knight. Dark Knight. Dark Knight._

With each passing second ticking slowly by, fear starting to weigh more and more, Bruce took a mental note that the emotion was more foreign to Batman then Bruce Wayne. It was an almost unfamiliar dose of feeling, something that allowed cold fingertips to caress his neck and nip with serrated teeth at his flesh, leaving rigid goose bumps to prickle all about his skin. Good thing Joker wasn’t hunched over him anymore, evaluating him like a feral beast, prowling just close enough to see and smell, but not yet close enough to taste. If he had been close enough, he may have been able to see the way a droplet of sweat dripped down Bruce’s temple, or the way his hands trembled and tensed at his sides. He could have possibly laughed at the way the billionaire was reacting to the whole scene he had played in front of his guests; that, or growled at him before sinking his fangs into his jugular at the way his Knight was acting.

 Bruce, in a way, was utterly helpless against the Joker, as long as those spectators all around them were still present. In fact, he’d have to continue playing the helpless victim for a while longer, even if the anxiety welling up in his chest wasn’t solely an act. He had to make sure the guests wouldn’t assume the worst, though the adrenaline aided in keeping Batman on track; Bruce was still off put by the whole situation unfolding before him.

“M-me? Why on Earth would _I_ be something you want? Is it money, is that what this is really all about?” He rasped out, somehow managing to swallow the growl at the end of his sentence before it was able to slip out. No, it couldn’t be money. The Joker held no want for that, and it couldn't be for the public's attention either. If he wanted to create a show for all to see, he would have done another round of irrational slaughtering whilst recording every sweaty bit of it before sending it out to the media with a threat. Always, he upheld the threat made if the news refused to broadcast the video, but ever since their first mistake of refusal, they’ve learned to show the questionable films when told to do so.

The cackling Joker had been emptying into the majorly silent room had ceased abruptly, his slack jaw snapping shut after those beasty eyes flickered from the rich snobs to Bruce. They zoned in on the man, narrowing into dark slits before a huff mixed with a snort escaped his throat incredulously.

“Ex- _cuse_ me? Do you mind, uh, re-peat-ing that for me Mister S-s-s-tutterer?” He asked almost politely, though his tone hinted at mockery, it seemed like an honest question. Batman would have narrowed his eyes back at the man, curled his lip in a snarl, and possibly used the blunt force of his gloved fist as a weapon to knock the air out of Joker like he had done Bruce. Instead, the one laying on the floor continued to lie, shifting ever so slightly so that he may lean up on his elbows. He didn’t dare jump up upon his feet at the moment, knowing that he’d either end up teetering over from the pain that would shoot through his body at the motion, or he’d be back on the linoleum ground with another bruise to nurse. Taking a beating would have been easier with his Kevlar on.

Bruce watched the opposing man closely, taking a moment to rack through his thoughts and found enough sense to ask his question once more.

“Do… you want money?” He almost praised himself at not stuttering this time, having heeded the other’s silent warning to watch his tongue this time around and ask with a clear voice and plain façade expression. Bruce knew for a fact he had asked this question properly by the way Joker’s expression softened, though only a fraction of an inch and was gone almost as soon as it appeared. Could he have started to take pity upon Wayne, figuring he had the man’s full attention now and knew he was holding all the figurative playing cards?

The maniac’s pink tongue flicked through slightly parted lips, testing his scars at the corner of his mouth as if tasting them for reassurance that yes, he indeed was the madman here and he could indeed call the shots when and where he pleased. The billionaire, though silently aching to turn the tables and curl his hands around the clown's throat, couldn't have a single say in the matter. In fact, he was backed into a corner, asking questions only when he deemed it safe and was trembling visibly from even the purple suited man’s distance.

Yes, Joker was in fact the one calling the shots for once, when considering his beloved Batsy, that is.

Bruce was starting to personally think the mad man was contemplating his own answer, as if money could possibly be the solution to the chaos he was stirring up. However, out of nowhere, the cane he was holding came down once more upon Bruce’s ribs, the handle being twisted between leather gloved fingers so that the bottom of the black wood would press horridly against Bruce’s still very sensitive ribs. The cry that escaped him was almost ear piercing, making the on looking crowd shudder as one, a few turning away with disgust etching their features sympathetically. Still, no one moved to come forward and stop the green-haired man; no one said a single word to stop him, nor did they take out a phone or communicator to alarm the law enforcement. Why? Because, Batman was suppose to be there, busting in through the window with glass shards littering the floor, before drop kicking The Joker into another room. But, Batman was nowhere in sight, or at least, to everyone’s horror (besides Wayne’s and Joker’s) he wasn't.

They were oblivious to the fact that their vigilante that balanced on a thin line between justice and self-righteousness was currently getting the air knocked out of his sore lungs. Right before them, Bruce was clawing at the linoleum floor, blue eyes dulling as pain coursed hotly through his veins, pupils dilating to large discs and vision blurring once more on the edges. This time, the pain was proving to be too much, and Alfred being held captive somewhere in the background meant that the pain would surely consume the billionaire, render him unbelievably useless, and take away whatever last attempts at remaining alive he had.

Adrenaline started to kick in more roughly, trying to keep Bruce alive long enough so that he may find a way to escape Joker, who was laughing manically with verdant eyes gleaming like a beast with claws clenched tight around it’s prey. It was gut wrenching to be pinned down, have all his ability to move and fight rendered to nothing. Maybe if the crowd wasn’t there, watching with silent mouths and disturbed eyes, Batman may have been able to save himself. But, he couldn’t do that. Joker had already spilled something crucial to the guests, calling Bruce his _Knight_ , and though that may not be precisely enough to alert the people as to who Bruce really was, if the Playboy jumped up and started delivering bone crushing punches to The Joker out of the blue, it would undoubtedly rise questions.

No, Batman would have to play with whatever cards he had, and play them right. So, he welcomed the darkness that finally started to consume his vision, eyes lolling around in his cranium before his shriek died to a gasp, and his lids dropped shut heavily. Whether Joker had meant for Bruce to pass out or not at that moment was unclear. And, whether or not he wanted to expose Bruce as Batman was another question entirely. Though, if he had really wanted to, he could have simply called Bruce Batman, told the entire party that their host was a leather fetish freak and left it simply at that. The Joker never did anything for no reason. He always had something he was trying to prove or reveal to the world, something he wanted seen, though up front it was never apparent.

Usually it was to prove that madness ran through everyone’s veins, that with a simple push, much like gravity, one would tip over their rim of sanity and dive head first into corruption and anarchy. Batman, though, felt that that wasn’t the point he was trying to prove here. In fact, it seemed that there had to be a few cards held up Joker’s sleeve tonight. He couldn’t think much about what exact cards could be hidden now, not while sound was being muffled by his unconsciousness, like cotton had been stuffed into his ears. The laughing, however, was heard as clear as day, echoing off every decorated wall and enveloping Bruce in a sticky bed of uncertainty.

There was nothing he could do in his unconscious state, not even threaten The Joker as he tossed the cane aside, his laughing slowly dissipating into chuckles, then huffed giggles behind closed painted lips. The party guests were gasping now, the knowledge that their host had just been knocked out or worse, killed, hitting their realization hard. The majority of the men blinked in disbelief, a few people taking steps back towards the exits located both behind and beside them. Several women dressed to the nines were now screaming, panicked as Joker stood up, grabbed both flaps to his blazer, and rearranged his suit in an almost gentlemanly manner. He tilted his head to the side, popping his neck with two sickening cracks, and snapped his fingers multiple times in a signal for his goons to back the rude snobs off. Joker couldn’t care less about those petty people that were more concerned about the green in their pockets then the waste of air in their lungs. The sooner those lesser individuals were out of Joker's hair, the better. His attention was solely on Bruce, on _his_ prize, his _Batsy_.

Without Bats being aware of it, body limp on the floor and head lolled to one side so his dark and now messy hair covered his eyes, Joker gave him a longing glance. The expression was something that might have been considered affectionate, if not for the mad fire in his eyes and the way his hands itched with temptation at his sides. He wouldn’t do anything to his Bats now, no, not this way. There was no way he could fight back, spit back some livid fire into Joker’s face and threaten him with empty lies. No, that wouldn’t be very fun if Batman couldn’t do that. It would be boring, _oh so boring._

Joker had been slightly surprised though, even now, he had to admit. He supposed it was rational that Batty didn’t jump up and start giving Joker a pleasant one-two, what with the watchful eyes on them and whatnot, but… by the way he was flinching, just taking Joker’s hits, almost as if he knew he couldn’t do anything about them, now _that_ was entirely new. Bruce didn’t even try to block the hits, or try to dodge them for that matter. It was almost as if he couldn't dodge or block them, like doing such a task might prove to be… taxing. Regardless of how much the blows hurt, Bruce refused to deter any of them away (then again, that could have been his pride swallowing down any pleas he might have had).

Joker’s eyes fixed on the passed out form at that thought, sauntering closer and stopped just close enough so that he may kneel next to Bruce’s torso. Bat’s chest was still moving up in down in a steady rhythm, though slight as it was. Joker had made sure not to kill him; that would be a very anticlimactic way for Batman to go, with a silly cane through his torso. It would have been funny if it weren’t so pathetic, but the Joker gave a small huff of a giggle anyway.

 Jokes aside, he figured there must be something on the man that was ruining his ability to return the fun Joker was dealing him. His leather gloved fingers started to itch again, tempted to touch the skin of his bat, but knowing well enough that any sort of touch that didn’t elicit pain was out of the question… at least until they could have some privacy, that is. But, until then, and until all the guests were out of the door via gun pointed to their fake faces, he’d settle for some curiosity being sated.

 Now, let’s see what ol’ Batman here is hiding under that neatly pressed, and probably expensive, shirt of his.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joker gets a peek under Batman's shirt... he's not impressed. 
> 
> I apologize for the wait on this chapter. I've had really intense writers block, household issues, and really just had to find the motivation to continue this. Thank you to all of you who encouraged me to keep going and I absolutely love all the compliments I've received so far! Enjoy.

Purple-leathered hands trembled slightly, fingertips ablaze as if the Joker himself were able to feel the priceless fabric of Bruce’s suit through the thickness of his gloves. The black fabric of the billionaire’s suit contrasted quite lovely, in Joker’s opinion, to his royal violet colored attire. The dark shades almost magnified the fact that the two, regardless of how many times Batsy would deny it, were undeniably meant for one another.

They were meant to continue this constant game of Cat and Mouse, frequently switching between the two roles and baring not only teeth, but pride in every swift swing of an arm or vicious kick of the leg. It was something that kept both men steady, quick on their feet and ready to acquire not only respect, but leverage upon the other.

If Joker made a jagged cut across Batman’s left bicep, he kept such a note in mind for their next combat, using that same wound to his advantage by putting his sole attention into that specific area so that he may cause as much distress as possible to his lovely other half. It was an almost sadistic tango the two partook in; twisting, turning, jerking, and slamming one another around in this violent whirlwind neither could get enough of. Oh, Batman may deny it, curse and spit and howl that he would adore eradicating Joker from the world, but Joker can read between the lines and can feel that his crusader was just craving to say something other than the bloody words he coughed out.

That’s why the Joker had planned out such a brilliant idea that would certainly make Batman’s head swivel hard enough to complete a 360-degree. He’d gone to one of his entrusted goons prior to this occasion and had them acquire a couple trackers, knowing that there was more to be revealed from underneath the stone-cold mask the dark hero so proudly donned. Such an accessory was almost too easy to apply one of the trackers to, tacking it firmly to the back of the Bat’s pointed ears during one of their close-combat confrontations.

Why the tracker? Well, to answer that question simply, Joker merely wanted to catch the caped crusader off guard. Yes, he has caught the man by surprise many times; a highlighted example would be when he had decided to overtake a patrolling police vehicle and take it for a not-so-pleasant, late night joyride. Such a reckless action caught his lovely’s attention that night, however the reaction Joker had earned was not the one he had been tirelessly reaching for. He had not seen the flash of question in Batman’s eyes that night, the bright burning fire of vengeance, or hesitance in his combat strategies. There had only been impatience and irritation, something that was not the best outcome for the madman’s face to be victim to.

The reaction Joker had been waiting for was a bit difficult to explain. It was a cross between utter horror, curiosity, and baffled surprise. The surprise was the key component and basically the point of the clown tracing his unsuspecting Batsy back to his hidden cave. What the Joker hadn’t been expecting was that the cave was in fact an establishment, a very massive, renown one that the pointy-nosed and greedy-handed individuals came to in order to enjoy exchanging obscene swindling and cheating that might even put the Clown Prince to hang his head in shame.

Once he realized the owner of the mansion was none other than Bruce Wayne, playboy billionaire, one could imagine the fascination in Joker’s eyes at the peculiar find. What had revealed even better was that Bruce seemed to be hosting quite the impressive shindig, something Joker came upon hearing between Alfred and Bruce’s conversation through the aid of the tracker. It proved to be a very convenient opportunity to fulfill his long planned achievement to get his Batsy to finally express a little more than anger, and to possibly get up close and personal with his truly.

And up close and personal was a bit of an understatement when evaluating the close proximity the Joker was in with Bruce. By this point, the gnawing paranoia that the nosy crowd was still watching them was far from Joker’s mind, his goons having ushered the last of them out of the various exits of the room. This self-conscious realization only further edged the man to thumb under the flaps of Bruce’s blazer, smoothing it out of the way before finally ripping the fabric off to expose the other’s thinly clothed chest more prominently. Bruce’s chest shifted up and down in small jumps, a slight rasp escaping his lips and causing remote concern to etch onto Joker’s brow.

He seemed to be having a bit of difficulty bringing oxygen into his lungs; so, maybe unbuttoning (or more so ripping) the priceless button up off of the Knight would prove beneficial. The green haired man’s tongue darts out and tests his own scars again, snake-like eyes narrowing critically as his fingers curl into the crevices of the shirt, spreading out between the spaces of the buttons before jerking his hands in opposing directions and quickly tearing the shirt off. His narrowed eyes finally relaxed once the deed had been done, rocking back on his heels and cocking his head to the side a bit so that he could get a better view of… well, he didn’t particularly know what he was looking for.

It wasn’t until he finally zoned in on the egg shell colored gauze did his curiosity peak once more. His hands froze in their haste, this time unsure whether to continue or not. Batsy wasn’t going to wake up any time soon, which was evident by his unmoving form, but Joker felt as if even ghosting over the gauze may awake him. For some odd reason, he couldn’t simply plunge into revealing the skin that lay beneath the bandages. In fact, a part of him knew what lay beneath them as a few bruises were peaking smugly at him from the edges.

Joker was not a very patient man, nor was he a man that let his curiosity burn into contempt. He liked matters to be done with haste and done effectively, but once he spotted the hints of severe bruising, he felt that he would not mind slowly torturing the individual who had placed their hands, filthy and tainted, onto his Batsy. Batsy was his plaything, _HIS_. If the self-righteous Bat wanted to receive a beat down, then none other than Joker would gladly hand it to him, but no one else was even subtly permitted to cause damage to him.

His jaw tightens to the point that his teeth may very possibly crack against the force whilst his hands slowly curl into constricting fists. They shake and hover over the gauze, Joker’s mind racing too quickly for even him to comprehend what it was he wanted to do next. He couldn’t bring himself to unwind the bandages, a dark corner in his mind knowing very well that if he did, he might do something he might even label irrational. There were not many, if any, situations that the Joker could admit to saying that his actions were uncalled for, even when considering his popular shenanigan with slaughtering a man on camera for the news to air.

He always had a plan behind the madness, always staying a few steps ahead of those that would attempt to follow him. But, never once had he felt such… violent hatred for an individual he may not even know. Right now, with foreign energy coursing like white, hot fire within his veins, he could take down the police station and eradicate an entire block of pedestrians within thirty minutes, tops. Not because he had some plan to unfold quickly afterward, but because his sorry excuse for emotions were now tipping over the figurative edge of a cliff and crashing head first into uncharted waters.

Rationally, one would wonder where this immediate reaction of malice was coming from, but since Joker had tossed sanity right out the window some time ago, he didn’t question the itching need to quench his thirst for blood. With a twitch of a muscle in his jaw, the purple suited man inhaled deeply through his nose and scrunched his eyes closed for a moment. He needed to get his head on right, push through the itching, but that was difficult to do when the purpose for his wants lay unconscious before him. Even though Joker had made the other pass out from the overload of pain, that might not have been the effect of his consistent beating with his cane if the playboy did not have those bruises.

Those _filthy_ bruises ruined his fun.

Almost as if said purple blotches were whispering in his ears for attention, the madman pried open his eyes, seeing them instantly and finding himself letting out a noise between a rabid growl and exclamation of anguish. There was nothing he could do, not now at least. Wayne was passed out, erasing any chances Joker may have had in receiving a pleasant reaction for his tedious efforts, and what was worse was that the culprit of this disappointment was from the hands of a hooligan who obviously didn’t understand who Batman’s arch rival was.

The only solution by this point was to find the sorry bastard and shove an ice pick into their ear until their brain matter oozed from their eye sockets, and that was just for introduction’s sake. There would be more torturous adventures the individual and Joker would experience together, the stranger being on the victim end of the deal of course. But, for now he had to clean up his mess.

The goons stood awaiting their boss, pistols and rifles clutched between grimy hands. Aside from two of them, however, seeing as they had to sling their guns to their sides so that they could keep Alfred under wraps and muffle him to the point where he was mute and stiff. The butler’s eyes never left Bruce’s face, pupils dilated to pinpoints and wrecked with fear of what that accursed hooligan would do to Mr. Wayne. That aside, from the goon’s point of view, Joker seemed to be having second thoughts on what to do next. One of them glanced to the other at his left flank, whispering so that the boss wouldn’t be able to hear them.

“Ay, what’s th’ boss doin’? I thought we came ‘ere to ruin this place down t’ it’s shingles?”

“Shh! I’m sure boss’ll give us the opportunity. You know how he gets around that scary bat-fuck.” The criminal shivers, making his artillery glint under the illumination of the mansion’s chandelier. Occasionally, they would hear the Clown Prince whispering nonsense about caging bats and doing something along the lines of ‘sympathetic’ torture. It brought shivers up the criminal’s spine to both think and hear about. Whatever it was Joker had been mumbling about late into his insomnia-induced nights, it was undeniably something that the madman could figure out for himself.

“Excuse you two, are we done dilly-dallying here or would you care to continue?” Both goons jumped where they stood, attention snapping to their boss who was now standing a yard or so from them, arms crossed behind his back and expression empty of amusement. Bruce Wayne was still out cold, his dark form still sprawled out on the floor, but his button up seemed to be readjusted and maneuvered so that it was back to it’s former appearance. How the Joker had so carefully and quickly completed that task and stalked over to the henchmen was a wonder all on it’s own. He was almost as silent as the Dark Knight, which was honestly a terrifying thought.

“O-oh, uh, nah boss, we were just wonderin’-“

“-We were wondering what we’re suppose to do next… boss.” The other man cut in, knowing his partner would sound too demanding for Joker’s taste and would inevitably end up on the floor gurgling in his own crimson fluid. The suited man raised a brow at that, noting the attempt to save his buddy’s hide, but doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he merely cracks a smile, one that was siding on unsettling as his scars wrinkled grotesquely at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, my simple minded folk, the answer to such a question is moderately simple-” He gestured his hands about the air beside his temples, as if his words were floating around his face and entangling into his grimy hair. “-It’s about time for both our exit, and entrance scene.” This, of course, drew a couple concerned glances, but the madman kept his grin glistening.


End file.
